


Sing For Me, O' Bard of Rage

by Godspeed_Cowboy



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blood, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Fucked Up, Gen, I love gamzee but lordy, Introspection, Mental, Mental Instability, Non-Graphic Violence, One Shot, Poetic, Poetry, Short One Shot, Slight God Complex, Sober Gamzee Makara, Symbolism, Violence, a bit - Freeform, cause Gamzee thinks he's a messiah, don't go cold turkey on drugs kids, i think, mentions of blood and injury, poetry on the fly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:47:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27794836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Godspeed_Cowboy/pseuds/Godspeed_Cowboy
Summary: The Bard of Rage. The connection between the two. The musical messiah.
Relationships: None
Kudos: 7





	Sing For Me, O' Bard of Rage

**Author's Note:**

> Just a poetic little thing about sober Gamzee and his classpect. Really wanted to write something about one of my favorite trolls.

A bard. A maker of music, whose rhymes sing of legends and prophecies and all such events of grandeur. Who plays the instruments with skill unmatched by any other, fingers nimble and quick in their quest to add a tune to the flow of the words, a mastery of orchestration. Symphonies are but games for a bard, and they are games they play well. Some might even say too well. Through their harmonious tunes, they channel their energies and emotions into their songs, weave their feelings into whatever they make.

Rage. Something powerful, chaotic, filled with turmoil, opposing greater powers for what is assumed to be the greater good. Anarchy and destruction, the impulsive actions of anger and fear channeled, the fall of civilizations and the unrest which soars to new heights in its wake. Welcoming such disorder with open arms, it festers within the heart and soul, it’s actions wrought through the hands of its host. Born from horrid things, from negative emotions bottled up, it grows until it breaks through the cage which holds it.

The Bard of Rage. The connection between the two. The musical messiah.

His music is different from most. 

His instrument, his clubs, which create the beat of the song. The meaty thumps as they go _thwack, thwack, thwack,_ into the skulls of his brothers and sisters. The tapping against grey walls, staccato and quiet, deceivingly gentle as they leave dotted trails. The wet smack against his palms as he beats his hands with them, leaving multicolored stains on grey skin as he steps closer and closer to the next victim. 

It’s all his clubs doing, those steady, steady beats.

His lyrics, his own rough voice. His low drawl in which he speaks to his subordinates, too calm to be good and too vicious to soothe. The too loud and then too quiet rise and fall of his _honk, honk, honk,_ sounds that slither over a slimy tongue through sharp teeth and into your ears like cold slugs you can’t keep out no matter what you do. Humming that drifts down the halls and under your door into your room as you shake in fear, waiting for the inevitable. Too sharp and too soft when he sings, twisting the tune into something new, dreadful. 

His voice is meant to bring joy, and yet it falls short of doing just that. 

He records his melodies on the walls, words written in life, life that he took with his own hands, the blood generously given to him by his fellow trolls. Rainbow that drips on the dark grit. He fills the room with these words, these written lyrics, poems and songs and sometimes simple sentences that hold no meanings to anyone except himself. 

Works of art, he likes to call them, invaluable pieces.

He knows that no one else will see them that way, he knows it. They did not give their blood willingly, after all. They did not heed his warnings or listen to his orders. So if they would not listen to gentle words, then he would guide them with his own hands, with violence and sickening taunts and haunting lullabies. 

They cry because of him, awake and in their sleep. Hate him for what he’s done, for what he does. Many fear him, try to run from his attempts to save them, though they are hardly ever successful. Some feel pity, some feel sadness, and others feel nothing at all, for they believe him to be too lost in his ways.

_But he can’t find it in himself to give a motherfuckin' damn._

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and Comments always welcome, and I am very open to constructive criticism.


End file.
